She is a huge fan of Travis, like lose her voice, desperately fall to her knees kind of fan.
“Of course I’m serious,” I reply evenly, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s just Travis Phoenix.”
A sharp snort crackles through the receiver. “It’s Travis freaking Phoenix.”
I roll my eyes at the empty kitchen ceiling. “Whoopee.”
“Has anyone told you lately that you’re... impaired?”
I grin, leaning back in my swivel chair. “Most days.”
Reagan’s giggle is like a home comfort. “Well, you can stay chill, but I totally care. I’m thinking I’ll swoon, drop my pen at his feet... you know the drill. Can I come over now so we can plan my grand entrance?”
I laugh, picturing her wildly rehearsing in her bedroom mirror. “You need professional help.”
“Seriously!” she insists. “Short dress, no panties—do I crash his condo or bring him back to mine?”
I flip my dark brown hair in a practiced toss. “His.”
“See? I knew you’d side with me!”
I laugh. “I have to go, I’ll call soon.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” she sighs dramatically, “while we’re out there plotting to make sweet little Travis babies.”
I hang up, shaking my head at her ridiculous enthusiasm. With that mental image burned in my mind, I head upstairs to change. In my room, the golden late-afternoon light slants through half-drawn curtains, making the pink walls look almost orange.
I slip into a sleek, off-white mini dress—long enough to flatter my legs, short enough to turn heads—and brush on a swipe of dark eyeliner. My reflection catches my eye: the confident curve of my hips, the steady lift of my chin. It took me a while to figure out who I am, but I am slowly learning, and I like what I see.
Downstairs, the chaos of the MC hits my ears before I even open the door to find my dad before I go. The smell of stale beer and motor oil grips me. Clusters of men lean against motorcycles or sit on chairs, arms draped over half-naked women, bark-laughing about last night’s bar fight. Yet when I step into the half-lit garage, everything hushes. Halting in my tracks, I feel their gazes settle, heavy and reverent. I’m used to it—being Mischief comes with its perks—but today it feels like steel rails pinning me in place.
Bill, the club’s Vice President, sidles up with a crooked grin. “Well, Mischief, you’re looking very grown up these days. I swear last week you didn’t look this good.”
“Spare me, Bill,” I grin, because he says the same thing each week. “Keep that up and Chief will have your ass on a hook.”
He lifts his brow, amusement flickering. “Not me you should be worried about, darlin’. Chief’s gonna flip when he sees that dress.”
I huff and then pivot, spotting Chief leaning against the doorway, a beer dangling from his fingertips. His tough exterior softens at the sight of me, but his dark eyes narrow. I force a bright smile. “Hey, Daddy!”
He sets the beer down with a thump. “You can’t think you’re going out in that?”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
He steps closer, voice low. “It’s short. Too short.”
I can’t resist, “Yes, that’s the point...”
He exhales, frustration humming in his chest. “Mischief...”
I cross my arms. “I’m not ten anymore. I can go out if I want, wearing what I want...”
He does not like that. His jaw ticks. “And I’m still your fuckin’ dad.”
I bite my lip. “I am just going into town, I won’t be far, and I’ll call if I need anything.”
I’m trying to calm the bear just a little.
He walks over, stopping in front of me. “Not happy about this, you hear me?”